Double Agent
by Oaktown fangirl
Summary: A glimpse into the double-life of Enzo St. John, an Enzo-centric fic set a few months before his game-changing New Years Eve with Bonnie. Updated with a chapter after they've become a couple.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is intended to be a one shot or at least stand alone, but I may add chapters as time and inspiration permits. It's slight, but I hope you enjoy it.

Enzo St. John entered the main entry hall of the Armory and found that no one was about. It was early evening. He'd been traveling all day, and he was tired. He headed straight to the door to what he thought of as the "inner sanctum." He was still carrying the small duffle bag that he left packed at all times—ready to go on short notice. It contained everything he needed, and at the moment, something else as well.

Enzo placed his hand on the biometric locking device. The lock's indicator changed from red to green, and the lock snapped open. He paused where the hallway teed into two separate branches. He still felt a twinge of guilt each time he passed the hall that led to the cells where various supernatural beings and other persons of interest were housed—in point of fact—held against their will. He could empathize with their situation, as he'd once been in a similar one. And so a part of him struggled with the knowledge of his role in doing to others what had been done to him.

He turned and headed left toward the workrooms and storage areas. It seemed likely he'd find Alex in one of them. Alex St. John, who ran the Armory, was his cousin of sorts—of the sort where her great-grandfather who had long since passed from this life, would have been Enzo's contemporary. Instead, despite the generations that separated them, he and Alex looked to be of the same generational age. She was his _family_ , or so she'd told him. And what a family it was—crap—right down through the ages.

It was the St. John family that had abandoned him at a workhouse at the age of four, leaving him on his own to make his way in the world. And owing to being turned to a vampire, he'd had more than a lifetime to wonder about his family, to speculate as to why they left him as they had, and fantasize about how his life might have been different if they hadn't.

So it shouldn't have surprised him that Alex had leveraged what she knew about him and his past to get him to join her and work for the Armory. Surely she'd known of his existence before Matt Donovan served him up to her on a plate. After all, the Armory's unwritten motto is that it knows _everything_. So it stands to reason that she knew, and never bothered to seek him out—at least not until she figured out how _he_ might be useful to _her_. Generations later and the St. Johns were still a crap excuse for a family. In hindsight he wondered why he expected her to be anything other than a St. John through and through.

He entered one of the workrooms and tossed his duffle on the wooden work-surface in the middle of the room. He unzipped the main section, then in turn, the interior pocket, and finally drew out a roll of dark, felt-like fabric …

* * *

The contents had been smuggled out of Europe, by means unknown to Enzo—neither did he care. They had first surfaced for sale on an online site, known only to collectors of rare—and questionably obtained—antiquities, artifacts, and art. Alex had initially been outbid. She then struck upon the idea of offering the seller a trade for something priceless and rare from the Armory's collection. It was an offer that proved too tempting for the seller to resist. He agreed to hold off on the sale until he could see and authenticate the item that Alex offered in trade.

The seller agreed to meet Enzo in a public place on the following day. They agreed on a shop that was one of the dwindling numbers of purveyors of used books, which made sense for the college-saturated area of Boston.

Enzo drove all night to make the agreed upon rendezvous. He wondered whether the bookstore owner and the seller were somehow in league together. It heightened his sense of caution, but ultimately, he felt in control of the situation. He'd arrived half an hour early, with plenty of time to scope out the cramped dusty shop where the transaction was to take place—walls lined with volumes of all varieties, from cheap paperbacks to ornate leather-bound volumes, some accessible only by library ladders. Enzo made his way up an incredibly narrow and steep flight of stairs to the store's upper floor.

The seller was late—a tactic to which he'd become accustomed. Enzo had selected a few interesting volumes from the upstairs collection and sat perusing them when the seller finally showed up. They were rarely what he expected. For this particular artifact, he expected someone older, perhaps European, but certainly not a twenty-something with spiky platinum hair, skinny jeans and a worn backpack—perhaps he was the courier for the real seller.

It had been easy—this was why Alex sent him. He simply compelled the young man to produce the items, to forget him and the transaction, and stay where he was for the next hour. On his way out, he'd stopped at the counter, and paid for a book he'd found, and compelled the shop owner as well, to forget him.

The whole thing had taken only a few minutes once the seller had shown up—so easy. It was no wonder that Alex increasingly found his ability to compel the unsuspecting to be an asset to the Armory.

* * *

The door opened, "Lorenzo, you're back," Alex said as she entered the room, sounding almost as though she cared and was pleased to see him. She was a confident, self-assured woman, and attractive too, he thought fleetingly, though he'd never considered her in that way. Yet, from all he could tell the Armory was her entire life. He had yet to discover any of her other interests or passions in life. "Success?" she asked.

"See for yourself," he responded, slowly unrolling the fabric to reveal, one-by-one, five iron rods. Each one was five to six inches long, and ranged from a quarter to half an inch thick—and they were old—really old—twelfth century perhaps. Each one was worn down by time. Small inscriptions ran the length of each side; the inscriptions were worn to varying degrees of visibility.

Alex very carefully lifted one, holding it with her fingertips at either end. "Yes," she said, satisfaction evident in her voice, "I believe these are the ones I've been looking for." She set the rod down gently, and added, "It's a pity we're still missing two."

Enzo began to carefully re-roll the rods in the fabric. "I'll lock these in the storage room, and log them in, in the morning," he told her.

"Lorenzo," she began.

He could almost feel the admonishment to come. He headed her off by saying, "Look Alex, I traveled all night last night and most of the day today. I need a meal, a kip, and a wash." His frustration with the short leash on which she tried to keep him bled through in his tone.

Just then, her phone chimed, indicating an incoming text. She looked at it hastily then turned to Enzo. "Fine," she huffed. "I'm needed in Section B right now. Make sure they're secure and that you take care of it in first thing in the morning," she added, to be sure he knew she was in charge of the situation. Then she turned and left.

Enzo took the rods and his duffle and headed a few doors down to one of the Armory's many storage rooms. He chose this one for two reasons. First, it had a small safe that housed smaller items—jewels, charms, and the like—and he knew the rods would be safe there. Second, this particular storage room also contained supplies of various drugs, potions, and preparations useful to the Armory in its pursuit of the supernatural. Here, he could find vervain in a variety of forms, liquefied silver, and of course, pills refined from the blood of Rayna Cruz. It was the latter that brought him here. He opened the safe and deposited the rods. From force of habit, his eyes quickly surveyed the small room. He paused. He heard no breathing or other movement. He was alone and unobserved. Then taking an empty container from his duffle, he opened the supply cabinet, and filled the container with what appeared to be about a ten-day supply of the magic-suppressing pills. He never took so many that it would be readily apparent. He put them in his duffle, zipped it closed, and secured the door on his way out.

* * *

Enzo tossed his duffle onto the back seat, and slid behind the wheel of his car. He had had a couple of long, tiring days—most of them spent right there, in his car. He pulled out, down the long driveway leading away from the Armory.

About a quarter of a mile down the road, he phoned Bonnie. "Hi."

"Hi. So, are you back?"

"Yeah, I got back a little while ago. Hey, have you eaten?" he asked on impulse.

"I was about to pour myself a bowl of cereal," Bonnie replied.

"Do not," he said forcefully, "I repeat—do _not_ pour a bowl of cereal. I'll be there shortly to save you from that fate."

When Enzo arrived at the small cabin in the woods sometime later, he found his fatigue had abated. He knocked. Having heard his tires on the gravelly drive outside, Bonnie was already on her way to make sure it was in fact him, and then opened the door.

Enzo walked in and placed his duffle beside the door. "Cereal?" he said without preamble, in a tone that suggested that the very word offended him.

"I lost track of time. It seemed the easiest thing to do …" her voiced drifted off as she watched him head toward the small kitchen.

"Bonnie Bennett—that's an excuse for the inexcusable." He pushed up his sleeves, washed his hands, and surveyed the kitchen for ingredients—some garlic, a jar of olives, some pasta. "One can always make something delicious with pasta, garlic, and a handful of herbs."

"One of the benefits of imprinting on an Italian line cook?" she asked.

"I suppose so. Gianni used to say that if you grate some hard cheese on top of anything, you make it a feast."

"What was he like?" she asked.

His hands went to work, as his mind drifted back. "He imparted a wealth of knowledge without ever thinking he was teaching. He was a keen observer of human behavior—especially people's follies and foibles. He was quick-witted and sharp-tongued." Catching his drift into nostalgia, he added, "Don't get me wrong though, he was a hard man. He barked at me from dawn until nightfall—'Enzo, take this, fetch that, clean this, scrub that, scrub it again until it shines.' He was hard work—actually the whole experience was."

He worked in silence for a time, before Bonnie asked, "What can I do to help?"

"Pour us each a glass of wine," he responded, clearly happy to be recalled to the present.

Bonnie poured two glasses of red wine. She set his on the counter next to the stove. Then she turned her attention to clearing the table of research materials, and setting it for dinner. A few minutes later, Enzo announced, "Have a seat, love. Dinner is served." He placed two steaming bowls of pasta on the table.

"Smells delicious," she said as she sat. He retrieved his glass and joined her at the table. She raised her glass, "To the chef."

His glass met hers, "Cheers." And then, "mangia!"

She took a bite of the pasta coated in a simple tomato-olive sauce. "Ummm, delicious."

He cocked his head, "And?"

"And so much better than a bowl of cereal."

"What? Is that all?"

"Okay—a hundred, _thousand_ times better than a bowl of cereal."

"That's better, love." His satisfaction at exacting the admission was evident on his face.

They concentrated on their meal for a time, before Bonnie asked, "So what have you been up to?"

"Road trip up the east coast to retrieve these," he drew out his phone, and opened photos of the iron rods, and handed it to her. "I've taken to secretly documenting everything I acquire on behalf of the Armory," he noted. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Bonnie enlarged the image and looked closely at the image. "Druidic runes," she observed.

"I'm impressed," he said.

"Between supernatural calamities, I was actually paying attention in my Occult Studies classes."

"I'm sure Professor Saltzman would be proud," he laughed.

"So, what are these reputed to do?" she asked him.

"So far we've only tracked down five of them. There are two more. As I understand it, when you have the complete set they form sort of a portal … a portal to the past, or the future."

"Maybe they enhance some form of astral projection? Practitioners of astral projection claim to time travel, meet gods and demons on the astral plane, all sorts of things. What do you think the Armory really wants them for?"

"According to Alex they're semi-worthless, unless you have the complete set, and a key to decipher the runes. Still, they're valuable enough to the Armory, and Alex is undoubtedly already scheming to acquire the final two."

"And you believe her?"

"In this specific instance …" his hands made a gesture that conveyed 'who knows.' "The thing is," he went on, "they're collectors—the Armory, I mean. I sometimes think a big part of it is the very act of acquiring things—from the most innocuous relics to supernatural beings—it's all the same to them." A shadow passed over Bonnie's face. "Sorry, love." She shot him brief half-smile of acknowledgement.

After dinner, Bonnie cleared the table. She washed, and Enzo dried. When they were done, Bonnie invited Enzo to stay a little longer, and headed to the couch. She expected his usual "must be getting back" declaration, and so she was pleasantly surprised when he said, "I nearly forgot. I brought you something."

"More pills?" she sighed. Her ambivalence about suppressing her magic was never far from the surface.

"Yes, but I also have a present for you."

"Really?" she brightened up, smiling.

"Don't get too excited," he said to lower her expectations. "It's just something I picked up during my travels." He went to his duffle and retrieved the pills, and a flat, white bag. He placed the pills on the end-table. "The middle-man for the druidic runes wanted to meet in a public place. So he asked me to meet him in this random used bookstore. He was late, so I had plenty of time to kill, and I found this. He handed her the bag, then relaxed into the far end of the couch, awaiting her verdict on his gift.

"Books on 12th" the bag read. She opened the bag and took out what looked to be a quite old leather-bound book— _The Layman's Guide to Magic: Spells, Incantations, and Potions Anyone Can Use!_ She opened it to the title page. It appeared to be a first edition from the late 1920s. "I remember Alaric telling us in class about the rise of interest in the occult in the 1920s. There were all of these secret societies and social clubs dabbling in the occult."

"So you like it? Because I wasn't sure how you'd feel under the circumstances—I mean not having access to your own magic."

"No, it's great— _thanks_. Besides, maybe I can picked up a pointer or two," she laughed. She scanned the table of contents and checked out some of the illustrations. "Usually, I'm a cover-to-cover kind of girl, but …" she flipped through the book. "Ha, ha—a spell to give your rival warts!" She flipped through a few more pages. "And these incantations look hilarious." She began reading one slowly aloud. She giggled, and turned to Enzo. His head was back; his eyes closed. He was sound asleep.

Bonnie couldn't help but smile. _If only it was a spell to induce sleep, I'd be impressed_ , she thought. She took the throw from the back of the couch, and covered him with it. Then, as quietly as she could, she added two logs to the fire, to ensure that it burned through the night. Then she took her new book, and headed to the bedroom where her giggling wouldn't disturb his sleep.

In the morning when Bonnie woke, Enzo was already gone. She found a note on the table: _Have to get back early. Thanks for the best kip I've had in weeks. See you soon, E._

~the end~


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Time-jump ahead, as this chapter finds Bonnie and Enzo together as a couple, as well as working together to uncover the Armory's motives. I hope you enjoy it.

Bonnie and Enzo lay side by side for an indeterminate length of time, allowing their bodies to cool, and their breath to find its usual rhythm. They were sated, if not exhausted, from their vigorous and varied lovemaking session. At length, Bonnie curled herself into Enzo's side. He drew her close, and draped his arm across her. Without looking, she reached out and pulled the sheet out of the tangle of disheveled bedding, and lightly covered them with it. He knew from her relatively shallow breathing and the energy radiating from her, that she was still awake. He peppered her temple and neck with kisses, and gently caressed her thigh. Then at last, she settled. Her breathing slowed, her body relaxed completely, and he knew she was asleep.

Moments like these were all he ever wanted from life. With Bonnie, he'd found happiness amid the uncertainty. In their short time together, he'd found the kind of contentment that had eluded him throughout the years of his long life. In the morning, it would come to an end ... at least for now. But no matter how he tried to quell his sense of foreboding, it persisted. He couldn't help but feel that the answers they sought would change their lives forever.

* * *

Finding out that his cousin Virginia St. John was being treated in a psychiatric facility inspired Bonnie's plan—and it was inspired. She would admit herself for treatment, and try to befriend, or at least get close to Virginia. The plan held out the possibility of an answer at last, and Bonnie was ready to try it. Now more than ever, she wanted to understand the Armory's motives; she wanted to be free to move on with her life … and with their life together.

Though it was simple, the plan took weeks of meticulous planning to implement. Bonnie needed a back-story—one that was credible and detailed enough to merit in-patient treatment, but not so serious that it called for substantial intervention. She wanted to be sure she'd end up in group therapy, and not dosed with medications that would dull her mind and reactions. It was a fine line. There were medical records to falsify, as the facility would ask for records from her previous providers. They would expect someone seeking in-patient care to have a history of failed treatment modalities.

They also had to find a way to sneak the anti-magic pills into the facility. Even though she wasn't being admitted for drug treatment, patients weren't allowed to dose themselves with any medication, not even over the counter meds, let alone the sketchy capsules taken in secret from the Armory's supplies. Their plan relied on enlisting the unwitting assistance of an orderly at the facility, and the use of compulsion. Enzo observed the staff coming and going. He needed someone with regular access to the patient's rooms. Doctors, therapists, and even nurses would only occasionally need to visit patients in their rooms. The best bet would be orderlies, who routinely were sent to escort patients to and from therapy, meals, and other activities, or housekeeping staff. What's more, the orderlies were probably not paid as well as other staff. They guessed that at a facility like this one, some of the well-to-do patients probably were already bribing them to bring in booze and other contraband. They would also know the best hiding places as well.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, there was a failsafe to be arranged—a way for Bonnie extricate herself if need be—a way to signal Enzo that he should come for her. And he stood ready to drop whatever he was doing to go get her—whether it was because she'd found her answer, or because she'd grown weary of the approach. That was the reassurance she would take with her.

Looking back, Enzo would consider these weeks the sweetest of his life. He and Bonnie together, and able to enjoy the full measure of their newfound—or perhaps newly acknowledged—love for one another. These were the salad days of their relationship, and Enzo wished they could last forever.

* * *

"You won't be needing that," Enzo said, as he reached over a retrieved a lacy black bra from the duffle bag she was packing.

"Hey, that's my favorite," Bonnie responded.

"Mine too. It can stay here and keep me company," he told her as he held it in his hand.

"Cheeky." She moved to where he sat at the edge of the bed watching her pack. She straddled him and came to sitting on his lap, facing him.

"You don't _have_ to do this, love," he said, taking a sudden serious turn. "There are other ways."

"Enzo, all the pieces are in place. It's time to implement the plan."

"Do you have any idea what those places are like," he returned to a line of argument he'd pursued when she first broached the idea.

"They're not exactly Dickensian horror palaces anymore. They're places where the well-to-do can warehouse an inconvenient relative, or a down-and-out celebrity can melt down in private—in short, not that scary. And we have safeguards in place," she concluded sensibly.

"It's not just that …" he started.

"I know. Me too." she said soothingly, and brought her forehead to his. She kissed him gently then it sparked into something deeper and more passionate. Enzo felt the heat rise between them, before Bonnie imposed some self-control. "I'm never going to get out of here, if you keep distracting me like this," she told him as she reluctantly pulled herself to standing and resumed packing.

"Promise?"

"I can't promise you that, but I can promise that you and me, and our little friend," she gestured to the bra resting beside them on the bed, "will be reunited as soon as this is over."

"I'll hold you to it, Bonnie Bennett … or should I say Bonnie McCullough."

* * *

Bonnie seemed pensive during the drive to Asheville. She gently, but persistently worried her lower lip between her teeth. Enzo glanced at her from time to time, but mostly allowed her the privacy of her thoughts. It was only when the reached the outskirts of the city that he broke their mutual silence.

He reached over and touched her cheek. She took his hand in hers. "As soon as you have what we need, send a message to 'Dr. Miller.' I'll come and get you," he said as much for himself as for her.

"No worries on that score. I don't plan to stay a minute longer than I have to. You're not still worried about me, are you?" she asked, as she gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

"My only worry is that your meager guitar skills will deteriorate even further from lack of practice while you're away."

"I'll miss you too," she said.

About half a block away from the facility, he pulled over and parked. He retrieved her bag from the back seat then opened the car door for her. "I could have dropped you at the entrance you know," he told her.

"I know, but I don't want anyone there to think I'm intimate with the Lyft driver," she smiled at him.

"Oh? And why would they think that?" he asked returning the smile.

"Well, they might get that impression if they see this." She draped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. He dropped her bag where they stood, and took her in his arms. When at last they parted, Enzo took a step back and handed her the bag. He heaved a deep sigh and watched her walk down the street.

* * *

When Enzo arrived at the Armory late that morning, he was disappointed to encounter Alex in the main entry hall. Saying goodbye to Bonnie left him in a sour mood. He was irritable and practically spoiling for an argument. So the last thing he needed was a run-in with Alex. He had hoped to slip in quietly, go to one of the workrooms, and pretend to have been busy at work. Instead, it would play out differently.

"Lorenzo, you're late. Where have you been?" she began.

"I got a lead on that Martin grimoire you've been after."

"Well, I see you're empty-handed," she responded sharply.

"It didn't pan out." Then something shifted. He was tired of constantly being on the defensive with her. "You know, we're supposed to be _family_ , _Cousin_ Alex, but you treat me like your glorified errand boy. I'm a St. John. We should be running this place together. It's as much my birthright as it is yours. Instead, you dole out information in tiny morsels—well, it's not enough to sustain me anymore."

"It's hard to trust you, Lorenzo."

"Because?"

She was silent for a few moments, as she considered her next words carefully. "Cards on the table?" she asked.

He nodded his agreement.

"Take the Bennett witch," she said.

"By the 'Bennett witch,' I assume you mean _Bonnie_ Bennett." His entire body was alert now.

"You know I do. You're the reason she escaped. She's eluded us ever since, and you've done nothing to make it right," she hissed. "I can't shake the feeling that you know more than you're willing to share."

"And why would I hold out on you?" he asked.

"I don't know—maybe you want to have some morsels of your own to dole out. As I said, it's just a feeling I have."

"You? _Feeling_? I didn't know you had it in you," he said bitterly.

"Thanks a lot," she retorted. He noticed the color rise in her cheeks. His barb had hit home.

Now he too seemed to carefully consider his next words. He never underestimated her—Alex was a shrewd and capable adversary—emotionally stunted perhaps, but not stupid or gullible—never that. "I'm surprised you haven't asked your good friend Matt Donovan."

"Sheriff Donovan?"

"You remember him—the one who helped you capture and lock me up."

"Of course I remember him. But why ..."

"Didn't you know? I thought the Armory knew everything."

"Know _what_?" she asked in exasperation.

"That lot is thick as thieves."

"What lot?"

"The Mystic Falls High School Glee Club," he responded sarcastically. "You know—Donovan, Caroline Forbes, Tyler Lockwood, Bonnie Bennett and the Gilberts—Elena and her brother Jeremy—a regular supernatural menagerie, except _Sheriff_ Donovan, of course. He's as ordinary as they come," he added.

He could almost see the wheels turning in Alex's mind. He decided to grease them a bit. "Bonnie Bennett and Jeremy Gilbert used to be an item. Then he left to go to art school—somewhere in New Mexico … Santa Fe, I think." He hoped he kept the distain from his voice, or that she would attribute it to his outsider status among the Mystic Falls clique.

"And you think Jeremy Gilbert is capable of hiding Bonnie Bennett, and successfully keeping her off our radar?"

"Like I said—they're all thick as thieves. And yes, I think it's possible—by now he probably has useful acquaintances in that part of the country. Anyway, it's a lead," he said flatly, then added, "and one that, apparently, you haven't pursued."

She paced the narrow aisle between two display cases as she considered this. "And you never thought to mention this before?"

"The cost of keeping our cards close to the vest," he responded mildly. She stopped pacing and stood facing him. "So, would you like me to follow up on Jeremy Gilbert?" he asked, already knowing what her response would be.

She surprised him by asking, "Do you know him?"

"Let's just say we've met."

"Then he'll see you coming. I'll deal with him personally." Now that was the response he was expecting. He'd found the limits of her trust. "Anyway, I need you to find that grimoire." She stalked to the locked door that led to the work areas of the Armory, and activated the biometric lock. She pushed the door open, but before she entered, she turned back to Enzo, and added, "I expect you to have it by the time I return." With that, she disappeared within. She'd arrived at the conclusion that Enzo expected in the first place—predictable.

Enzo stood for a long time surveying the main hall of the Armory. While his eyes took in the room with its myriad artifacts, his mind pondered his cousin Alex and her poker skills. While sending her off in search of Jeremy Gilbert wasn't his ace-in-the-hole, it would provide a good short-term diversion, and buy Bonnie some time for sure. Still, he'd played a face card, valuable in its own right, and one that he could play only once. Enzo knew that unlike chess, he couldn't think two or three moves ahead in a game of chance. All he could do was make the most of the hand that was dealt him.

~The end~


End file.
